Only Lights in the Sky
by iamzuul
Summary: Young Will Turner said he left England after his mother died... these are (my version of) the events that led up to her no doubt premature death. [complete, one-shot]


**Title:** Only Lights in the Sky  
**Pairing:** Mr. and Mrs. Bootstrap, with perhaps just the smallest suspectation (is that even a word?) of Bill/Jack.  
**Rating:** PG-13, or veryveryveryvery mild R. Witness my hesitant use of smut.  
**Summary:** Young Will Turner said he left England after his mother died... these are (my version of) the events that led up to her no doubt premature death.  
**Disclaimer:** I own a pug, a computer, and a truck (if you call it that) that has all the pick-up of a semi. If I owned Captain Jack Sparrow, I'd be a very rich woman. As it is, I don't. Damn.  
**Word Count:** 8,875. HALLELUJAH! The highest amount yet. 41 written pages, 15 typed.

Only Lights in the Sky (started 10-14-2003)

She met him on the docks of Portsmouth during the breezy month of September, when the leaves were golden in their transition from green to red, when it was too hot to truly be fall, and not cold enough to be winter. It was a magical time, that cusp between summer and autumn, a time that lasted but a few days some years, and never visited at all on others.

Gold and magic, cool breezes and rare moments. That was what came to mind when she thought of William Turner.

She had been sixteen, and he at the edge of eighteen. It wasn't the first time had seen him or the crew of the _Whistler_ at the docks, unloading their crates of tuna, blue fin, or more rarely, shrimp. But it was the first time she had spoken to him; been close enough to see the rough evidence of a thin moustache and goatee; felt the warmth of his hand on her arm after he had pulled her out of the water. She hadn't heard the angry tirade of the _Whistler_'s captain as he dressed down the men who had very nearly dropped fifty pounds of dead tuna on her head. It was this man who had rescued her - this man, whose dark eyes were far too close to hers to be proper.

Was it her brief brush with death that made her heart beat so, or the heat of his fingertips grazing the skin of her arm? Was it that lack of breath that kept her from leaning away, or something else entire?

"Forgive me, miss," he had said, and to her young ears that voice had been like water to a man parched of thirst - she needed more. With a boldness she had never displayed before, she grasped his hand before he could stand and leave, marveling at the calluses his life at sea had given him.

"My name is Kate," she said quickly, desperate to keep him from leaving. "Please, give me the name of my rescuer."

He had smiled, then, and Lord would it have made her weak in the knees had she been standing. Why, oh why had her urges as a woman chosen to arise at that time? Was it fate? Was it the fear of death that he had rescued her from? Or was it the sea that had sucked her into its watery embrace?

"William," he replied, and then she lost the grip on his hand as the captain rushed forward with a blanket to wrap herself in, apologies dropping from his lips like a rain she could not feel.

_William_, she whispered in her mind, tasting the brine and the metallic tang of gold in the word, and decided it was indeed the sea that brought them together. And she blessed it, her eyes never leaving his over the shoulder of the _Whistler_'s captain.

~~

Kate visited the docks every day after that, regardless of the fears of her uncle (an accident like that - just as her meeting with William - was a one in a thousand chance. What were the odds it would happen again?), just so that she might have that chance to see the _Whistler_ come to port.

Fishing was still good for them back then - Captain Mowry had the wisdom of generations of fisherman, said to be able to intuit the minds of marine life as a clergyman did the mind of God. She asked him that once, when they shared lunch at her sister-in-law's pub; he had laughed and replied: "Should I take that as a compliment or an insult, Miss Miller? If a clergyman could truly divine the mind of God, why would he always say _The Lord moves in mysterious ways _whene'er tragedy strikes?"

Her uncle did not approve of her fascination with the young fisherman. He believed sailors and their ilk to be vicious creatures, barely living by the law. He told her of how they allowed the sins of the flesh to overrule the teachings of God, visiting those harems where no good woman would find herself going. Even married men would forsake their vows in such dens of sin! And what they would do during the months at sea with no sight of land did not bear mentioning.

But Kate knew better. William was a good man, as was the captain of the _Whistler_, first mate Duncan Carpenter, the boatswain Peter, and numerous other fishermen William had introduced her to. They were gruff, weatherworn, but polite, and men she was certain her uncle would like. Nevertheless, she felt it best not to bring William home for dinner.

So she learned the clock to which the _Whistler_ timed itself, and every week when the fishing boat pulled up to the docks, she was there, waiting.

~~

It was her sister-in-law Mary Miller who told her of William's secret, two years after that fateful meeting on the docks.

"Why do you think William's been working so hard on the _Whistler_, Kate?"

She had been up to her elbows in greasy, soapy hot water, and the caked-on grit at the bottom of the soup pot had caught her attention more than her sister's question.

"He is a hard working man," had been her absent reply.

"There's no disputing that. He's barely twenty, and yet so steadfast. Few his age could say that they're the same." Mary paused then, using the back of one floury hand to push blonde hair out of her eyes. "But I'm speaking of work _beyond_ that; you know he makes good money under Captain Mowry?"

Kate finally stopped what she was doing, turning just enough to look at the other woman. "What of it?"

Mary smiled knowingly, then. "What does he spend that money on? He has no home, other than the _Whistler_; he has no bills, no family to take care of. And yet he's working extra hard, to get extra pay. Where's that money going?"

She shook her head. "I don't understand what it is you're getting at, Mary."

That knowing smile only grew broader. "You'll be your own woman in another month, Kate. Surely Uncle Bartholomew couldn't dispute a marriage proposal then?"

For several long moments, Kate could not find the breath she needed. It was quite similar to when she had been knocked off the docks by the _Whistler_'s cargo: a roaring in her ears, a suffocating weight on her chest. And now, like then, it was William who saved her. William's visage filled her mental vision... his kind eyes, his full lips, smiling at her, like he did when he thought she wasn't looking.

"Marriage?" she had said faintly, and though her sister had replied, all she heard was: 'Mrs. Katelin Turner' - a fantasy she had never dreamed would come true.

~~

She had been eighteen for two weeks when William proposed to her in the kitchen of her uncle's cottage, bearing a simple gold engagement ring and a paper prepared by a well-known bookkeeper that declared his earnings over the past year. Uncle Bart was still uneasy over Will's occupation as a sailor, but could not deny that he made enough to support his niece in a comfortable fashion. He gave his blessing to them over the crude cutting table, and Kate would have said then that day was the happiest in her life.

Bartholomew and Mary's father were the ones who organized the marriage, finding and speaking with the local parish on how to proceed. Mary helped Kate sew the wedding dress, and the _Whistler_'s crew donated money to help pay for food and decorations. When the day came in early May, on a hazy morning filled with the scent of the sea and fresh-baked bread, the tiny church was crammed with over fifty people - all of the _Whistler_'s crew arrived, bearing gifts Kate was certain they couldn't afford, along with her extended family and friends.

In the morning, when she awoke to her cold bed, she was Kate Miller. By the time she went to sleep that night, she had her own small apartment by the docks, her own kitchen with a full larder, and a warm bed filled by her husband. Mrs. Katelin Turner was how she was to be addressed now. When she awoke the morning after her wedding, she would have said then _that_ was the happiest day in her life.

~~

Her marriage to William Turner lasted for a year and a half before Kate became pregnant.

As always, it was Mary who realized the situation first - though she was unable to bear children herself, she had come from a large family with many women, and could put two and two together once the symptoms presented themselves. 

"Kate Turner," she had said firmly when Kate had voiced her fears over a pregnancy. "Your husband loves you very much. He may be on the sea and away from home for a week at a time, but he knows that you are faithful. Of course he'll believe the child is his. He'd never think otherwise."

And as always, Mary was right. William came home the next Saturday, and during Sunday prayer she had whispered him the news. Initially he had been dumbfounded, but when realization fully struck he had leapt from their pew and whooped so loudly he almost gave the elderly parson a heart attack. Of course, they had been scolded for disturbing sacred prayer, but in the same breath were congratulated for the happy news.

The months slid by, and as the swell of her belly grew larger, she began to spend more and more time with her uncle again. Her apartment on the docks grew lonely; William quit the crew of the _Whistler_ in order to find a better paying position as the quartermaster of the merchant ship _Ladybird_. The first shipment took the ship through the colonies of the New World, and it wouldn't return for over six months. The _Whistler_'s captain still visited her when he pulled into port every Saturday, but it wasn't the same; Kate had never been separated from William for so long before, and the constant silence in her cold bedroom was too much to bear.

But she did not fault her husband for this; she knew he loved her, and that was why he went into this forced separation. When the _Ladybird_ returned, he would have more money than he had made on a year's worth of the _Whistler_'s trips, at the very least. What they had saved would last until he returned, and then they would be able to properly afford the arrival of a baby.

But such an event was not to be. Two-thirds of the way through her pregnancy, Kate suffered a miscarriage. She very nearly bled to death that day, but the doctor was a learned man whom Captain Mowry had convinced to come to her. Her uncle and sister-in-law were waiting for her when she awoke, tears in their eyes. 

_It had been a girl_, Mary informed her. 

_It would be an expensive price to pay for allowing the Captain's choice through the door_, her uncle replied.

Kate cried for the loss of her once-daughter, cried for her husband's loss, still weeks away from her. And when the doctor's bill came to them, she cried again, for the money William had worked so hard for would only barely cover the cost of their daughter's death and funeral.

"The cost is nothing," Mary had scolded, "for if we had not accepted Captain Mowry's choice, you could be just as dead as your departed Anne. I've seen too many women die from what you went through. Count your blessings and stop worrying about the cost. We'll find the money to pay it off."

She feared what William would think, once he returned from his voyage to the New World, but she did not share these fears. She knew what Mary would say - but did not believe her sister would be right. However, when William came home, he only held her tight as she cried, obviously caught just as deep in grief as she. In the morning he visited the doctor and paid the bill. He gave the rest to her once he returned, and then went back to the docks to terminate his employment to the _Ladybird_.

For the next year he remained in Portsmouth, struggling to find work in a city where everyone relied on the docks. Though he never said it, Kate knew that her husband blamed himself for the loss of their child. That, perhaps if he hadn't been away, he could have prevented the death. That he could have taken better care of her. She knew, because Mary told her William confessed that belief to Uncle Bartholomew; her uncle took that to mean that William did not think he could take care of his own niece. A chasm grew between them, destroying any closeness they might have cultivated since his marriage to Katelin.

William's whole life had been devoted to the sea, knowing nothing but ships and currents. And now, at twenty-four, he tried desperately to stay away from them - and in doing so could barely hold down a job. For a time, he worked under a shipwright, repairing sails and rigging and patching up those ships that needed it. All that required, however, was strength and very little know-how, and there were many men in Portsmouth that filled that requirement. He was fired, his pocket no more full than when he started.

William went from job to job, from ship outfitters, to tanners, to blacksmiths, to carpenters, struggling to keep food on the table and the apartment's rent up to date. He had chosen a bad time to quit ships - now it was the only job that could support a family in a comfortable manner.

Kate did not want him to return to the sea, though she saw him struggling against its pull. She did not want to be alone again. So Mary agreed to pay her for the time she spent helping at the pub, and while the amount was small, it was just enough to keep William from suggesting he reunite with Captain Mowry and the _Whistler_.

They had been married for almost five years when William came home with a black eye and a bloody lip, and a tale of a press-gang to tell her. Three of them had dragged him into an alley on his way home, and he had only barely gotten away.

Kate was furious, and expected William to be, also; but he was merely introspective.

"The Navy... does pay well. Especially men with families," he had said hesitantly.

"But where would you go?" Kate had demanded. "They could send you anywhere - Spain, the New World, the Orient. I would never _see_ you again! And what if you died? What of _pirates_?"

"If I died, you would be even better off," he said slowly, but she would not listen. She would not lose him again.  So he agreed that he would not enter the Navy - but she was beginning to see a wide gap forming between them, borne of his want to provide for her, and her want to be near him.

Over the next two years, things only got worse. She suffered another miscarriage. Mary's husband, Kate's elder brother, died fighting against a Spanish privateer on his way home from the Orient. Uncle Bartholomew finally gave in to the sickness that had been plaguing him for ten years. Prices rose, and Kate and William were forced to move in with Mary, sleeping in the kitchen of her pub. And all the while William struggled to keep a job and dodge the press-gangs at the same time.

It was winter when Mary caught pneumonia, and became so ill that it was suggested she close the pub until she became better. But she refused; the little money that Kate made in the pub was all that kept her and William afloat, and Mary knew that.

The morning after the tax collectors rapped at the pub's door to gather up late rent, William left with a set jaw and did not return until late that night.

"Where have you been?" Kate asked when he returned - and immediately cried, "I'll have those Navy hides this time, I swear!"

William put a hand to his cheekbone, lightly touching the bruise that was evidence of yet another run-in with a press-gang. He shook his head slightly. "Only a bruise. It will heal."

She placed a bowl of stew on the crude table in the kitchen, and he sat before it but made no move to eat. "I met a man today," he said slowly.

Kate paused, turning away from the dishes. She knew that tone of voice - the way he would carefully enunciate each word, hesitantly. He was going to speak with her about something unpleasant.

When she said nothing, William continued, lowering his eyes to the stew before him. "We were cornered by the press-gang, out on the docks... just both at the wrong place at the right time. He suggested we go to a tavern to hide out for a time before we leave again. That's why I was late."

With slow movements, Kate wiped her hands on a grungy towel and sat before her husband. She wished he would look at her. "This man... " she asked quietly. "Who is he?"

"A captain," he said simply. "He's bound for the New World in the next two weeks. He - " and here William faltered for a moment, before he brought his eyes up to hers " - he needs a quartermaster."

Kate closed her eyes, turning her head away. She knew what he was suggesting. Things were going so badly that he was honestly considering a return to the sea. 

"You know how I feel about this," was all she said.

"There's good money to be made in the Spanish Main," he continued, "hauling rum throughout the colonies. The captain - he promised to pay for my services in advance."

His wife opened her eyes, yet did not turn to face him. "How much?"

William named a figure, and Kate could not suppress her surprised reaction.

"So much! Surely it's a scam. No merchant captain could afford to pay that _before_ you're even hired. And what of after you return?"

William's eyes were on her now, unwavering, and now she wished he would look away. "He promised the same amount once I return home. And a quarter of that, for every month I serve on his ship." Once again, he faltered slightly, but not for half as long. "I struck a deal with him... we shook on it."

"But how can you expect him to keep his word?" she demanded. When he did not respond, realization slowly began to dawn on her. "You... you've already agreed to this, haven't you?"

A slow, acquiescing nod, and her husband reached into his jacket and removed a sizable pouch. The contents shifted and clinked together as he gently set it on the tabletop. Kate did not need to look to know that it contained the amount promised.

"I will not let you go unprovided for," he whispered.

Kate closed her eyes, and forced the tears not to spring forth. "This captain," she asked softly. "What is his name?"

"Jack Sparrow. Captain of the _Black Pearl_."

~~

Three days later, the _Pearl_ was to set sail on its voyage, but the night before William insisted on showing her the ship, so she would know what to look out for when he returned.

Kate was not impressed, though she had lived on the docks long enough to know an impressive ship when she saw one. It was too large to tie at the docks with the rest of the ships, so she waited patiently with William's jacket around her shoulders as he rowed them across the frigid water. And even though the moon was half-full in the winter sky, she had not seen the _Pearl_ until they were nearly upon it.

It... _loomed_. That was really the only way she could describe it. It was _far_ larger than any civilian ship she had seen, even the _Ladybird_. They approached it from the fore, passing the bewinged figurehead that appeared to watch them with detached malice, and even though the sails were tied up so far above them, the black barque seemed to be in perpetual motion.

_This_ was the ship that was to take her William away? This dark ship, so malicious in the nightlight? Or was it just the moon and her own inner fury, muted by her love but still so powerful, that made her hate this ship on sight?

Their journey was silent across the water and onto the deck of the _Pearl_, William graciously helping her up the steps carved into the dark wood of the hull. She would have enjoyed this, Kate knew, if they had done this only a few years past. She would have enjoyed the sensation, the thrill, of sneaking unknown onto an armed merchant vessel, despite the eyes of wooden sea creatures staring down at her from the afterdeck. But the adrenaline sat like a fishing weight in her stomach, despite the obvious joy her husband was experiencing.

With sparkling, mischievous eyes, William led her to the helm and turned her to face the bow. He gestured out across the expanse of the vessel, his other hand resting lightly upon her hip.

"The _Black Pearl_," he said simply, but Kate could hear the admiration in his voice. "What do you think of her?"

She was silent for a long moment, listening to the creak of timber and rigging as the ship swayed in the ocean's grip. It made her think of a graveyard. "It is a beautiful ship," she said finally. "But it is still just a ship."

He said nothing to this, and she turned her face up to better see him in the dim light. "This ship is going to take you away from me, William. How can you expect me to love it? I'm going to lose you again, because of it."

He smiled gently down at her, and lifted a rough hand to cup her cheek. "You're not losing me, love. There is no place I would rather be, than with you - but if this is the only way I can provide for you, then I shall do it, and with a happy heart. And I swear to you, Kate... I will _always_ return to you. No matter what."

"But what if you lose your way?" she whispered, the words of her dead uncle ringing in her ears. _The wanton lives of sailors_, he had said. What sins awaited her husband in the New World upon this dark ship?

William's smile grew slightly, and he looked up into the skies above them. "Do you see the stars?" he asked. "See the patterns they make? They only shine like this over Portsmouth - there are different stars in the sky over the Caribbean." His eyes dropped back down to hers, and he ran a thumb over her cheek. "These stars will point my way home again, should I ever get lost."

Kate lifted her gaze, past the invisible shrouds of rigging and main lines. She saw the stars, yes, but that was all they were - stars. She garnered no wisdom from them.

"William," she whispered, but a sweet kiss stole her words away.

His lips against hers, his hand calloused and gentle on her cheek, his thigh warm against hers, it was too much. Words failed to express her depth of feeling just then, so she spoke with her body instead. Kate drew him to her, down to the deck; told him of her passion with hungry kisses, spoke of her fears with tiny gasps and mewling cries, raged her anger against him with scratching nails and sharp teeth. She wanted him to tell her of his own frustration, of having to be torn away from her, but William told her of nothing but love and compassion; his silent words, as his hands, always so gentle and coaxing.

But it wasn't enough. Damn him if it wasn't enough.

Kate closed her eyes, willing the presence of the _Pearl_ to disappear and leave her alone with only William and the sea. She never saw the figure in the rigging, a black presence noted only by the absence of stars in the sky.

~~

Katelin Turner arrived at the docks too late to wish her husband good-bye. Though the sun had risen hours ago, the morning was still hazy, clouds hanging low in the sky, steel gray and hardly varying in color or consistency. It looked like snow.

_I rather hope it snows_, Kate thought dismally. She looked out into the bay, into the distance where light had not yet fallen. She located the _Black Pearl_ only by the lanterns floating three decks above the waterline; she clenched her fists tight and tried to ignore the ache between her thighs.

"Here t'wish summon good-luck an' good-bye?"

She startled out of her reproachful glare at the ship in the distance, stepping to the side in order to look at the man who had snuck up so easily upon her. He was odd looking, indeed - a slender man, barely taller than her, with his shoulder-length black hair tied back and interspersed with braids. One lay loose and boasted a woman's earring dangling at the end of it against his jawline. In clothing he looked no different than any other sailor, wearing a stained shirt untucked from his breeches. He wore no shoes. 

Who was this boy? she wondered, for he hardly looked old enough to shave. Perhaps he _wasn't_ old enough to shave; perhaps that was why he went clean-shaven among the other bearded sailors.

"I am," she said finally, turning her gaze back out across the water, ignoring the smaller skiffs loading at the docks. One of them was heading out to the _Pearl_ even as she watched. "But... he is already gone."

"Ah," the lad said knowingly. "Early bird type, 'ey? Perhaps on one of the fishing vessels? I've heard fishes like it best in the hours before dawn."

Kate frowned slightly. Why was he bothering her so? Could he not see she'd rather be alone?

"He's no longer a fisherman," she replied, more for the sake of politeness than for the sake of conversation. "He's a quartermaster."

"Which ship?" he asked, gesturing out into the bay with an oddly bird-like motion. "Would it be the _Black Pearl_?"

Kate's eyes jerked towards him, wide with surprise. How did he - ?

The dark-haired lad chuckled, shaking a finger reprovingly at her. "Don't give me those eyes, miss. Few ships dock here and have space enough for a quartermaster these days. And those as have room - and aren't of the Navy persuasion - don't usually _bother_ with a quartermaster. So call me old fashioned."

"Then you are on the _Black Pearl_'s crew?" she asked with a tilt of her head. Of course he was - but what position did _he_ hold? Cabin boy? Despite her curiosity concerning how this lad could aid a crew of weathered men, she knew better than to ask a question as bold as _that_.

He only shrugged. "Aye, of sorts. And you'd be Bill Turner's lass, then?"

_Lass_. That term stung her, as though he were implying she was just another nameless girl in a nameless port. Kate did not try to conceal the bite in her reply. "Yes, I am William Turner's _wife_. My name is Katelin."

"Ah." The boy's eyes hooded slightly, and abruptly the unnervingly alert expression had morphed into a look of - almost - hungry contemplation. She did not like having those eyes upon her like that, and so turned away before he could speak again. "He's told me much of you. Drives a hard bargain, that man."

She kept her eyes out to sea, on the lines of the ship that were only now becoming visible. What did he mean, 'drives a hard bargain'? How would this boy know anything about her husband, unless the captain had already told his decision to the crew? Her frown deepened. A crew member... of sorts, he said?

"There's the last bit o' cargo, then," he said abruptly, and was moving towards the edge of the docks without even so much as a farewell. And he moved with an off-kilter sway that was far worse than any landed sailor she had seen.

"Wait!" she cried before he could step onto the longboat that had been slowly loaded with water barrels as they had been talking, finally giving into her burning curiosity. "How do you know all this?"

He did not stop, bending down to untie the stays before hopping on. The four men already aboard grabbed the oars and began rowing without any words of instruction, barely looking awake enough to row in a straight line. "Same as any man could," he replied cheerfully as the water began to separate them. "By listening!"

But Kate knew that wasn't the case, and she hurried to edge of the docks as though doing so would gain her the answers she sought. "Your name?" she shouted across the rapidly increasing distance.

A wide smile split the youth's face, visible even at his distance, and he executed a wide, sweeping bow, miming the removal of a hat as he did so. The boat did not even rock with the motion. "Jack Sparrow, luv," he replied, in a voice that carried across the water as she now knew it would carry across the black decks of a hated ship. "Captain of the _Black Pearl_. I promise t'take good care of your husband!"

That _boy_, captain of the ship her William was to sail upon? Kate's hands rose to her chest, nail digging into her palms - and she stayed there for hours, until the _Pearl_ rose sail and disappeared into the distance, praying fervently that her husband would return to her.

Alive.

~~

The gold Sparrow had put down for her husband's services was put to good use.  The physician Captain Mowry had summoned for Kate's first miscarriage was called upon again, this time to aid Mary in her recovery from pneumonia. It went towards paying the bills, for food and for the pub. It extended much farther than Kate thought it could, and yet that was poor comfort for the exchange of William's warm embrace.

Two months passed before the first letter came, along with the promised payments. After that, the letters arrived almost weekly, though often times out of order. The sea was a difficult creature to pass news along on, and she knew she was lucky to receive those letters at all. And doubly lucky to receive the monthly payment Sparrow had promised - for while the sea may be a wild creature, the men who rode her were often wilder.

Kate kept the letters in an ornate wooden box that she received from William during his sixth month of service, which she left inside the dresser drawer by her bed. She bound the sea-worn parchment with a red ribbon, and was excruciatingly careful not to break their seals. Instead, she would slide a sharp letter-opener under the wax, a gift from his third month in service, in order to preserve the seal. It was different on every letter; she wondered where he had managed to find them all, but kept her curiosity to herself.

After she received his first letter, Kate began to write him back, but quickly that practice was halted. While his letters always reached her, for her address was static, hers were often lost. Out of twenty that she sent him, he only received one. After his fifth month of service, she stopped.

When William's letters arrived, Mary would prod her into reading them aloud over after-supper tea. Through those letters, they learned many things - bits of French and Spanish, names of ports that had previously existed only in imagination, descriptions of places unknown.

At first he was primarily a tour guide to the places they, as women, would never be able to travel to, but as the months wore on he rapidly became a storyteller, too. Through William they learned the names of the crew, their quirks and buffooneries. He became a proficient sketcher, and would often send pictures of the men while at their tasks, or of the islands they frequented, or maps that marked their travels. One of his best pictures was one of the captain, leaning against the wheel of the _Pearl_ with pipe in hand, gazing up at the full moon William had only barely sketched in. She kept all of them, unbound and folded, beneath the letters in the wooden box.

They learned that there was no first mate aboard the _Black Pearl_, like there was on every other crew they knew of - yet the ship did not seem to suffer for that lack. As quartermaster, William would plan the best route to take, as well as map their progress and keep a separate log of daily business. And, though William had only been to the Caribbean once before, Sparrow seemed to have great faith in his abilities.

It was in August, William's ninth month of service, when they learned Jack was not nearly as young as he appeared. The captain, in actuality, was of an age with Kate - and while yes, that _was_ on the young side for a captain, he had been in control of the _Pearl_ for nearly three years, and had served both as first mate and quartermaster for five years before that. Authority was not an unfamiliar position for him, and no man on his crew took his youth for a sign of weakness.

But Kate was not on Sparrow's crew, and regardless of his age or his knowledge felt no security with him captaining the ship her husband was on.

Ten months had passed when she received news that the _Pearl_ was finally returning to Portsmouth. Thirteen, and Mary came running through the door of the pub to tell her the _Pearl_ had been sighted out past the bay by old Captain Mowry and the crew of the _Whistler_.

When William finally made it to the docks, his Caribbean-tanned face flushed with the exertion of rowing and the late January cold, Kate was there, waiting for him.

"Kate," was the first thing he said, eyes bright and conveying incredible depth of feeling, just as that single word spoke of how deeply he had missed her.

She had swallowed past the lump in her throat and smiled, blinking back tears. "William," she said simply, and turned down a corner of the blanket she held bundled in her arms. No tears or whimpers, this time; just a mute, sleeping testament to their last night together, when they snuck aboard the _Pearl_.

"William," he had echoed, and reached out to press his palm against the tiny boys forehead. The most beauteous smile spread his lips them, happier even than the one he'd smiled on his wedding day. "Will Turner."

She had thought that this time, the birth and life of his son would make him stay. 

She was wrong.

~~

Pots, pans, crockery, glasses, utensils, spices, all became airborne when the _Black Pearl_ came back for her quartermaster, a year and seven months later.

With the money that had been saved on his thirteen-month voyage, William could take on odd jobs outside the pub without fear of being fired. And, even when he did lose the job cleaning fish because Captain Mowry was forced to sell off the _Whistler_, they did not go hungry. Mary's pub supported them well, while the saved gold went to emergencies and little Will's minor ailments.

But when Mary's pneumonia returned, this time in the middle of summer, those saved pennies vanished like Kate's innocent daydreams. And the _Black Pearl_ loomed dark and ominous in the bay only weeks after Mary's death, a tempting harbinger of sorrows and broken promises.

"You can't leave me here!" she screamed, her throat raw with emotion. Without her uncle, her sister-in-law, not even Captain Mowry - she had no one to lean upon this time. He _would not_ take her support away from her like this!

"But you and the baby - " he had protested, and was quickly cut off by splintering glass and a spray of whiskey.

"Don't you dare use him against me! I don't care if we lose the pub! I don't care if we go hungry! Don't you see that I'd rather starve and be with you than eat and be alone?!"

In the end her arguments were useless, and she found herself down at the docks once more, her son in hand. Little Will was barely two years old; how would he understand that he was saying a lasting good-bye to his daddy? That father would not return at evening the next day? Or the day after, or the day after? That he would not see his father again for an entire year? Or more?

Kate did not acknowledge Sparrow as he waved a jaunty good-bye with a tricorne had acquired during the last two and a half years. He looked older, though not old enough by half; that he wore his hair longer than she wore hers did not inspire confidence. His grin, before he turned away, had appeared triumphant - as though he understood all too well what she had lost and he had gained. And good God - was it the setting sun, or did he have gold in his mouth?

William had not looked at her when the longboat pulled away, bearing him and the triumphant captain to the _Pearl._

"I hate you," she whispered when the ship left port, and Kate did not know if she meant Jack Sparrow, William Turner the first, the _Black Pearl_, or the sea. Sometimes, she suspected that she meant them all.

~~

Little Will grew quickly, and he asked often when his father would return. She would only say that father would tell them when in his letters, and returned to tending the pub.

Will was innocent of his father's crimes against them, and while she dreaded the weekly arrival of letters, he laughed and looked forward to them. She would read them to her son, quietly before bed, but never more than once. He often begged for her to repeat the ones pertaining to Africa, Asia, Australia; but after each one had been read, Katelin would bind them with the rest and shut them away in a drawer.

After his eighth month away, she received one of his letters closed with the seal of a bird flying over a setting sun. It made her think of Sparrow, and after that she never bothered to save the seals again.

Little Will was nearing four years old when the letters - and the payments - stopped coming. Kate did not know what to think, did not know what to say when her son asked: why?

"Lotta pirates in the East Indies," an old sailor told her when she asked him what her husband could have been seeking in the eastern seas. "It's on account of the silk and opium trades. Even a heavily armed merchant trader is in danger out there."

"Almost as bad as the Caribbean and it's gold," the sailor's drinking partner had added. 

That's it, then, Kate thought. The _Black Pearl_ was taken down by pirates. Her husband was not to be returned by her; the stars would not lead the way.

She could not understand why she did not cry.

~~

Little Will never questioned his mother when she told him the British Fleet could no longer deliver letters from the Orient. But when a thick letter arrived in July two years later, sealed by a bird and a setting sun, he gave out a cry and snatched it from the postmaster's hand, and took it straight to his mother.

He was sorely disappointed when she read it in silence, proclaimed father would be coming home, then sent him to up to bed. 

The letter William wrote them read like this:

_My Dearest Katelin;_

_It is with great joy that I am able to write to you again. Words cannot say how angry I am at myself for leaving you for so long with no knowledge of my welfare. I left you alone, my love, and for that I cannot forgive myself._

_In late June we were besieged, the _Black Pearl_'s crew and I, and many men were lost. Our captors forced those of us who remained into a slave labor camp, and I regret to say that is where I have resided these past two unhappy years._

_There were many other English sailors with us, and it was with the aid of all, the grace of God, and another one of Jack's harebrained schemes that got us out. Thankfully, our captures kept the _Pearl_, and once we were free it was a simple matter to take her back._

_Sanders, fortunately, made it through that hell alive, as did Lawson, but of the twenty of us who served on the _Pearl _only four have lived to tell the tale. Perhaps only three; Sanders is beginning to show the signs of fever, and we all fear what such a sickness will do to us on the long trip back to England._

_Jack has never sailed the _Pearl_ with full hands before, but now there are more hands than we can find use for. The ship is cramped in a way I could not recall her ever being before, but I rather prefer this discomfort to the hells of India. There are now over thirty men on the _Pearl_, one of them a captain in his own right. A few are his men; most others are ill, from the years they spent in slave labor, and do not care who they serve under. The captain, Hector, has agreed to serve as first mate in order to show us a path around Cape Horn, since the waters around India and Africa are now too dangerous for us to sail through, and it is, after all, Jack's ship. I only pray that all of the injured and ill shall make it through the voyage, though it is a dire fact that many will probably die from fever or scurvy on this trip._

_It will take us many months, even with favorable winds, to return to Portsmouth in this way, but know this: I am returning to you and our son._

_I love you, Katelin. Please, remember that my love for you and little Will was all that kept me sane in India. _

_You husband_

_William Turner._

Kate burned the letter after her son had fallen asleep.

~~

True to his word, William returned to Portsmouth a scant three months later. His arrival was unexpected; the _Pearl_ had heaved-to out of sight from the bay, oddly voiceless in its presence.

Glass shattered when he arrived, much as it had when he left. This time, though, it was made in surprise, not anger. Only relief touched her mind when she saw him, older, more tanned, his dark eyes haunted. She forgot all of her hurt - all she wanted was to touch him, to prove to herself that he was still alive. It was a sorrowful passion, but passion all the same.

Little Will was away, attending classes that the nuns in the old parish taught before noon. There was nothing to hinder their escape to the bedroom, touching and tasting as they went, rediscovering what they had forgotten during their four-year separation.

His fingers traced lines of fire along the stretch marks on her thighs and stomach. She dragged her nails across the whip marks on his back. They found signs of aging on each other that had not been apparent before, although they had only just reached and past their thirtieth year. Scars of time had marked them both.

Kate turned over his wrist, and felt the content of saddened afterglow fade away.

Somehow, she could not bring herself to be surprised. He had lied to her. About everything; about the _Pearl_, about his commitment to her. How could he say he loved her when he did such things that tore apart her heart?

Kate ran her fingers over the raised flesh, drawing out the letter for 'pirate' with the edge of her nail.

"You should go back to the _Pearl_," she said softly, "back to him, before Will comes home."

He looked at her sadly then, but said nothing. He offered no apologies or excuses; he did not ask her why, or who she meant, or exclaim that he was the husband and therefore she should obey _him._ He only rose to dress and pull on his boots.

William left before his son could return from school. Kate did not tell the boy that his father had returned. She only told him that father had chosen to continue working in order to repay the debt of the past two years.

She wondered why she did not cry.

~~

Kate burned every letter written to her that bore her husband's handwriting. She never broke the seal to read them; she merely accepted them when the postmaster made his rounds, mutely, and tossed them into the fireplace or oven without another glance. She burned all the letters he had written during his first voyage on the _Pearl_, and the box as well. And the pictures he had drawn; in owning a pub, she finally heard the tales of the _Pearl_ she had failed to hear before, and took savage glee in tearing apart the coal-sketched images of Jack Sparrow, before sprinkling the pieces on the hungry flames.

She never told little Will that they still received letters from the father-turned-pirate; she feared he might remember the days when she read them aloud. But he gave no sign that he did. Will had been four when she stopped that practice, and four years was a long time past for a lad of eight.

"Why does father never come home?" he asked her once.

"He is a merchant sailor. His ship takes him far away from us."

The lie sounded so right on her lips. She wondered if that lie made her a bad mother.

The same as his lie made him a bad father, she told herself.

He still sent her a monthly allowance, but now she understood it for what it was: stolen gold that was steeped in spilt blood. For a time, she could not bring herself to use it; she had nightmares where the gold imparted stains on her hands every time she spent it, stains that would not come off despite how hard she scrubbed. Stains that showed her for what she was: a pirate's wife.

It was when she began seeing those bloodstains when she was awake that she realized she should not fear the gold. Her husband had not just become a pirate - he had become a pirate when he took up Jack Sparrow's offer, six years past. It was stolen gold that had funded the pub and paid for little Will's entrance to the world, stolen gold that had cured Mary's pneumonia and then laid her to rest. Why should Kate fear phantom stains now? She had blood up to her elbows, soaked into her skin long before she learned of her husband's lies.

Kate bought laudanum to put her dreams to rest, and that was all that let her sleep at night.

Little Will received a package from his father after his eighth birthday, and Kate opened it before her son could do so himself. Inside was a piece of gold on a chain and a letter; she handed the bauble to her son without truly looking at it, and without a word turned her attention to the parchment.

_This was found in the Caribbean_, the first line read, _and I wish this is where it had stayed. I fear this piece will prevent me from ever returning to you_. 

"What does it say?" her son asked.

"That he is well. He found that in the Caribbean, and wishes you a happy birthday." She folded the letter without reading the rest, and threw it on the fire.

Kate took a double does of laudanum that night, but it did not keep the dreams at bay.

~~

In July she sold the pub to a man named Jeremy Hawkins, and bought another apartment on the docks. Little Will - William - would be turning nine over the next month, but she could not get up the energy to plan an activity. 

It had been nearly a year since the last letter from her husband.

She did not know how many times the door had been rapped before she managed to answer it. A leadenness had entered her bones over the last few months that had nothing to do with age - but for a split second, she realized it was her growing dependence on the laudanum that was doing this to her. She just as quickly dismissed the notion. The laudanum was all that let her survive life, now.

When she opened the door, she did not recognize him. He was older, but the age showed more in his eyes than on his face; dark eyes that were obscenely outlined in kohl and seemed to have the weight of eternity behind them. His hair, still far longer than it should be on a man, had been braided and beaded and twisted into a raven's nest of ornaments. He held his tricorne at his side, resting it against his thigh, the leather battered and beaten by time. He needed badly to shave.

"You're a hard woman t'find, Mrs. Turner," he said, and while she had not recognized him by sight, she would never in a hundred years forget that voice.

"What do you want?"

His eyes flit to the darkened interior of her home, then back to her face. "Your boy home?"

Kate did not have the energy to shake her head. "He is at school," she said instead.

He seemed relieved at that, though such relief was fleeting across his features. Hesitation grew in its place, even though the pause lingered even less than the relief. But he said nothing, casting his eyes down to where he now held his hat in both hands, toying with the rim.

"What do you want?" she asked again. 

He lifted his eyes to hers, solemn. "Bill - William - is dead," he said softly.

Once, Katelin had prided herself in just how in control she was. Nothing had ruffled her feathers; regardless of circumstance she would always stay in command of herself and of the situation. But something inside her broke then, something that had been eroded ever since that first chance encounter with Sparrow on the docks, a tidal-wave that consumed her so completely that she did not realize what she had done until the pirate calmly straightened and spat blood off to the side.

She drew her hand to her chest, still clenched in a fist with knuckles tingling. She felt no remorse for striking out like she had. She felt... nothing.

"You killed him," she whispered.

The man flinched at her words, more than he had at her strike, but did not look away from her. Perhaps the gesture was meant to prove that he felt the loss keenly as well. Or maybe it meant that he felt no remorse for drawing her husband into the life that ultimately killed him.

"Leave," she told him. "Don't come back to Portsmouth." And she closed the door, not giving or waiting for a good-bye.

She did not measure out the laudanum as she had so many times before. She poured the entire little bottle into the glass of diluted whiskey she had prepared, and did not grimace at the solution's bitter taste.

_Look to the stars_, he had said, _for they will lead me back to you._

_Damn you, William_, Kate thought emptily, dropping the glass on the floor and ignoring how it shattered. _Damn you and your bloody stars. Did you really think they were somehow celestial being that could bodily place us on the right path home? They were only lights, William._

Katelin was sixteen when she fell into the waters of Portsmouth's bay, and William had been the one to pull her back out. 

She was thirty-two when she fell on the floor in her apartment, drowning in anger and laudanum and sorrow, and this time there was no one left to pick up the pieces.

~fin 10-31-2003


End file.
